


Not Even Dating

by andthebluestblue, Shayvaalski



Series: Mark [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fucking, I want to touch his face with both my hands, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Mark - Freeform, Moriarty Is A Dick, Porn With Plot, Pre-Threesome, Trans Male Character, Transgender, Translock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2416988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthebluestblue/pseuds/andthebluestblue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/pseuds/Shayvaalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dating Sebastian is going well. </p><p>(Not that Mark is <em>dating</em> Sebastian. He's dating Jim. He just hasn't seen him in a while.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Even Dating

**Author's Note:**

> There is some significant fucking going on in this—specifically, sex that involves a trans man and cis man. It's in no way othering and we did our best to make it very positive, but if this is not your jam, you may want to stop reading after _am I just along for the ride?_ , and skip to the end notes to fill you in on the minimum plot that happens during. 
> 
> As always, Blue and I wrote this in tandem—I feel like I should remind people of that—and both of us identify as other than cis. (He's a trans guy, and I'm a butch.) If that soothes anyone's worries about the porn.

The text said _Be ready at 4 on Thursday_. Jim hadn’t signed it, but Mark was getting used to the endless parade of numbers in his inbox.

He’d wanted to be able to send back that _some_ people had jobs, thank you very much, and that he worked at four on Thursday. But of course this Thursday he had swapped a shift with Alimah so that she could go to something that had her muttering darkly all week about set-ups and what she was going to do to the next _nice young doctor_ that her mother pointedly introduced her to. So there’s no effective excuse—which Jim, of course, already knows. Because Jim is the bastard stepchild of the CCTV and James Bond. 

So Mark is ready at four on Thursday. It takes him an hour to get dressed; or rather it takes him ten minutes to get dressed and fifty to go through every buttondown and pocket square and tie and decide which trousers show off his arse but not the fact that he isn’t wearing a packer, because is wearing a packer a come-on, when they probably already know you don’t usually, and should he _really_ be worried about how his arse looks? 

He is going to kill Jim. 

He’s not even (that) into Sebastian. He’s not even _dating_ Sebastian.

Mark ends up wearing the first thing he had tried on (fitted grey trousers and a black t-shirt with a pale blue button-down over it) and is agonizing over shoes—trainers? Boots? Should he be prepared for something athletic—is this Sebastian’s idea of a date, or Jim’s?—when the bell rings.

Sebastian will know, at least, so Mark demands, “What are we doing?” as he opens the door. The man blinks, and his eyes flicker to the side like he’s looking for someone to tell him what to say, and then he meets Mark’s glare squarely. 

“Going on a date,” he says, and there’s maybe just a hint of a grin on Sebastian’s face. And then, “Coffee. Boss—Jim recommended a place, couple blocks away. That good with you?”

_Boots,_ thinks Mark a little wildy, because Sebastian towers over him even dressed neatly and looking casual _;_ he’ll wear boots. 

“Boots,” he replies aloud, and hastily says “I mean, shoot. I’m not dressed yet.” Sebastian raises his eyebrows and Mark says, a bit wildly, “Boots! I need to go put on my boots.”

He escapes into the living room, leaving Sebastian standing rather awkwardly in the doorway—he’s still hovering there when Mark returns, shod, a few moments later. 

Mark has decided to pretend that the Doorway-Boot Fiasco never happened, and so he says, brightly, “Coffee, then?”

“Coffee,” affirms Sebastian, and oh good, they have now said the same word three times in three minutes, won’t this just be an intellectually stimulating and informative date. At least the man’s easy to look at—Mark stops himself in the middle of the thought through sheer force of will. He also does not say _coffee_ again. He is in fact trying to find something to say that isn’t either a reference to a hot caffeinated beverage or _If I kill Jim will you help me_ when Sebastian very carefully offers Mark his arm. 

Oh. 

Mark is not entirely sure what to do with an entire arm (his brain helpfully provides several ideas, none of which would be appropriate on the first date, not that it’s a real date); he frantically thinks of all the movies he’s seen involving arms and all he can come up with is to place his fingers delicately on it in preparation for some sort of dance. 

He’s not going to do _that_ , though, like a woman would, so instead after a long pause he takes an umbrella from the coat rack and hooks it over Sebastian’s arm.

“Thanks,” he says, and adds, “I heard it might rain.”

There is another longish pause, and Mark can’t read Sebastian’s face at all, not even a little bit. Finally he blinks, slow, blond eyelashes over gray-green eyes, and says, with what is clearly a considered lack of inflection, “You’re welcome.”

Mark shifts his weight, then says, too bright, “Shall we?”

Sebastian examines him a moment longer, then moves away from the stairs so Mark can shut and lock his door and step down into the street. There’s a few seconds of awkward shuffling as they swing into close proximity, but Mark thinks that he handles it very well with a neat little sideways step, and is feeling almost smug by the time they start down the sidewalk. 

Sebastian takes a rather pointed step farther away from Mark, and Mark is about to be confused and offended when Sebastian very deliberately reaches out and brushes the tips of his fingers against Mark’s hand. He’s tall enough that it looks like an awkward gesture, torso angled crookedly and other arm held a bit wide for balance, still holding the umbrella, and Mark takes pity on him, turns his own hand palm-upwards for Sebastian’s fingers. At least he isn’t the only one ill at ease.

Sebastian rests his own palm against Mark’s, and Mark automatically moves to interlace their fingers, but Sebastian makes slight twisting motion and they end up with their hands simply clasped. That’s better, isn’t it? Of course it’s better. They barely know each other, and this isn’t really a date, it’s just a kind of play-acting to put Sherlock off the scent and cover for Jim, whose thumb they are both squarely under. 

Mark is busy thinking this to himself Very Firmly when Sebastian stops in front of the cafe and Mark nearly strains his arm from forgetting to either let go or stop walking. He must look like an _idiot,_ and he entertains briefly with what he is going to say to Jim, next time they see each other. Currently, _what the hell were you thinking_ is featuring rather high on the list. 

“Co—” begins Sebastian, and then stops. “This is the, uh, place. That Jim says—said we should go to.”

“Right,” says Mark, and he can _see_ what Sebastian is planning, so before he can go through with it Mark slips ahead of him and seizes the door handle. 

“After you,” he says, and pushes it open. Sebastian looks—not disgruntled, quite, but as though he might be considering it. Slightly affronted, like Tobi when Mark shifts in a way she doesn’t approve of when she’s in his lap.

It’s almost sweet. Mark wonders, as Sebastian precedes him, if he opens a lot of doors for Jim. Probably. Door handles are dirty, and Jim is almost appallingly fastidious—or maybe not, maybe Jim waits, because there are things Mark still doesn’t know, and he has an idea that one of them concerns the need for rules about who enters a building first. And why.

By the time Mark gets himself collected again Sebastian is frowning at the menu, which is unusually perverse and impenetrable, even for a London coffeeshop. Mark is more or less used to this kind of menu—white marks that are _theoretically_ offerings and prices, but don’t seem to have any discernable letters—and he moves up to the till and orders a latte, two sugars. He can _hear_ Sebastian shuffling closer behind him—Mark _knows_ he can move more quietly than this, what the hell is the man playing at—and when he turns his head a bit he can see Sebastian still scanning the menu frantically, one hand on his wallet half-out of his pocket.

“He’ll have an espresso,” Mark says firmly to the young woman behind the counter, who is eyeing Sebastian in what is a rather insultingly clear appreciative manner. “Please.”

“Right then,” she says, tearing her eyes away. “This together?” 

“Yes,” they both say at once, and her eyebrows twitch just the slightest fraction upwards. Mark shuffles backwards half a step and shoves the point of his heel into Sebastian’s instep, not quite hard enough to hurt him but enough to distract him long enough for Mark to hand the woman a tenner. He grunts, annoyed or impressed; Mark can’t tell, but the woman is already handing him his change so it’s too late for Sebastian to do anything about it. 

It seems to take forever for the skinny kid running the machines to make their drinks—how long, thinks Mark, as he stands close enough to Sebastian to feel the warmth coming off his arm, can it possibly take to brew two coffees—which isn’t helped by the fact that now _both_ baristas are eying Sebastian speculatively. 

He’s not even that pretty. It’s not _fair._

After about a lifetime they sit down, Sebastian looking somewhat nonplussed at the size of his cup.

“Do I do it in one go?” he asks, and when Mark looks at him blankly, he clarifies, “Like cheap booze. Shots.”

“No, you sip it,” Mark says, hastily, because Sebastian is eyeing the cup speculatively and he doesn’t want to deal with a burned throat. Or tongue. Especially not tongue. Not that it matters. Oh dear.

“Huh,” says Seb, inscrutable, and then, “Like good whiskey, then.”

Mark is beginning to be exasperated. “No, like _good coffee_. You can drop your act, Sebastian, I _know_ you’re not—” he waves his hand expressively at Sebastian, who just looks at him. Then he takes a sip, careful but not delicate, and sets the cup back down. 

“Not what?”

Mark scowls at him, fingers curling around his mug so as not to gesture quite so much. “You’re still not some kind of. Of uncultured thug.”

Sebastian makes a little _huh_ sound in the back of his throat and shrugs; Mark wonders if he’s finding this equally awkward, or if he doesn’t care, if he’s just doing what he’s told and that’s all there is to it. If the uncertain way he rolls the next sip of espresso in his mouth is just an act. 

 

***

 

“Saturday, 8pm,” this text reads. Mark is not quite finished sighing heavily and rolling his eyes when the next one comes in: “Wear something sexy. xoxo.” 

Mark considers sending back his disapproval, but decides it would be more effective to simply express it via his wardrobe. So when Sebastian comes to the door, Mark is wearing his oldest pair of jeans and the jumper Jim once “mistaken” for something that had “crawled onto the counter and died”.

He regrets his choice when he sees what Sebastian is wearing. Which is only a step up from what _Mark_ is wearing, really, black trousers and boots and a fitted jumper in a shade of blue-gray that sets his eyes off more nicely than it has any right to. 

Sebastian gives him a very long look, and then steps in and closes the door behind him instead of waiting for Mark to come out. Mark is just opening his mouth to object when Sebastian says, “He tell you to dress up?”

“Not exactly, no,” he says, mulish, and Sebastian actually laughs. That his laugh is nice feels predictable, but Mark is startled by it anyway, by the warmth in it, the lines in his face that show he’s laughed before. Which of course he has, he must have a life outside Jim—or at the very least, before Jim. But it’s nice to have to confirmation. 

“Well,” Sebastian says, leaning back against the door, “I don’t particularly care what you wear—” 

“Of course not,” mutters Mark. “It’s not as though it’s a _real date_ or anything.”

Sebastian raises his eyebrows. “You look fine,” he says, and hesitates before adding, “Uh, cute. You look...cute?” It’s more of a question than a statement, but Mark will take what he can get. Not that he was fishing. “I just thought you might like to change. Since Jim isn’t here. I’ll tell him you wore,” he waves a hand, “this.”

Mark ruffles a hand through his hair (he should be used to the motion cutting off by now, fingers brushing the razored nape of his neck) and grins in a way that is _not_ shy because he is a Grown Man and this is Not A Real Date. 

“Yeah. Okay. Two minutes?” 

Sebastian makes an expansive gesture, head tilted like he’s thinking, and says, “Take your time. Reservation’s not for a bit still, and the theater’s right next to the restaurant so there’s no rush.” 

“Right.” Mark doesn’t quite bolt for his closet, and spends almost the entirety of his original two minutes trying to remember what he wore the _last_ time, before remembering that this is not Jim and Sebastian will not know. He’s halfway into his black trousers before he realizes that if they both wear black they’ll match and what if Sebastian thinks he’s doing it on purpose, and then he has to weigh the chances of that against the reality of exactly how dirty his grey pants are. He does settle on the grey pants, but that means the green shirt is out, and he’s pretty sure he wore the black shirt last time so he can’t do that again. Even if Sebastian doesn’t notice. 

He’s only two or three—five at _most_ —minutes past his original estimation when he corners back into the hallway, shoes mostly on, in a red shirt that doesn’t fit quite as well as he would like, with a black jacket over it.

Sebastian straightens Mark’s collar before he can stop him. There’s a flash of something that might be dismay across his face, and then he covers it neatly with, “Sorry—habit. Ready?”

“Yes,” Mark says, and this time when Sebastian offers him a hand he takes it without hesitation, noticing as they set off the way the man adjusts himself to walking at Mark’s pace—at Jim’s pace, he thinks. They’re both under the average. Sebastian must be used to it, that’s all, it’s not _personal._

It’s just that he doesn’t think Jim is the hand-holding type. 

 

***

 

Like clockwork, the third text comes just when Mark is starting to wonder if he committed some unforgivable faux pas during the film. _Wednesday, 7pm. Don’t wear anything flammable_. Wednesday—his one day off that week, of _course_. But flammable? Jim seems to have a thing about fire, yes, but Sebastian is—Sebastian is not Jim. Definitely not Jim, and therefore definitely not Mark’s boyfriend, why is he worrying about Sebastian’s tendencies towards pyromania or lack thereof. 

Anyway, all fabric is flammable, Mark thinks as he holds up a sweater against his chest, if you try hard enough. Sherlock is occasionally irritating, but at least he’s educational. 

He settles on something fairly close-fitting but loose enough he can get it off in a hurry—in case of _fire_ , even though this is the third date and Jim had certainly—well. It will be useful for fire, at least. 

It’s not that the man’s all that _handsome_ , Mark thinks as they walk to wherever Jim has planned for the evening, he’s just. _Attractive_. The way tall muscular men are always attractive, that’s all. Sebastian is well-dressed enough that Mark begins, slowly and with familiar irritation, to suspect they are not going to be learning fire-breathing or jumping ceremonial bonfires or any of the other insane possibilities he’d come up with since Sunday afternoon. He is going to have a word with Jim. He is going to have _several_ words with Jim. He is going to—

“After you,” Sebastian says, quietly, and slips in front of Mark to hold open the door to a rather nice restaurant Mark has eyed wistfully but never been able to justify going to.

The food is good, a bit better than the wine, and Mark is just writing it off as yet another sort-of-not-really-date successfully completed without humiliating himself when they reach his apartment building. Sebastian was quiet on the walk back, and Mark notices that he’s looking a bit—Sebastian is too controlled to be _flustered_. So it’s not that. And it’s not that Mark _forgot_ it was the third date, exactly, he just discounted it. Because there’s no reason for it to be important, anyway, not like it was with Jim with his stomach in knots and his body shivery with want and nerves. This is just play-acting. 

Sebastian’s mouth on his is very gentle. Mark blinks; they’re so close together he feels his lashes brush the other man’s cheek.

Oh.

 

***

 

“He said to call you,” Mark says, almost frantic; he has paced around his sitting room a full four times while waiting through the rings. Tobi watches him suspiciously from the corner. “He—he _kissed_ me and then told me to call you and then he _vanished_ , you need to tell me what’s going on _right_ _now.”_

On the other end of the line Jim makes a breathy delighted noise that is entirely inappropriate for the circumstances, and also extremely distracting. “Tell me everything, you naughty boy.”

Mark tries to respond but can only summon a sort of bubbling strangled noise for a long moment, and then says, appalled and helpless, “ _Jim_.”

“Well, did you not like it?” Jim says in a far too reasonable tone, and then voice dropping, “He didn’t get it wrong, did he?”

“No,” Mark says quickly, “Of course not, it was lov—fine.” He reconsiders. “I mean, no, it was not fine, Sebastian is not my boyfriend, and _you need to tell me what is going on._ ”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

From the way his voice drawls out and softens Mark is relatively sure Jim has just lounged back against something, probably the couch, and tilted his chin towards the ceiling, like a cat demanding to be petted. 

“No.”

“He’s taken a fancy to you, of course.” 

“What.” There is no question mark at the end of the word, because Mark cannot even get himself in order enough to punctuate. Jim laughs.

“A fancy. A shine. A liking. He’s _into you,_ darling.”

“What!” Mark does not feel in control of this conversation. 

Jim’s voice takes on the slightly breathless quality it has whenever he thinks he is being particularly clever. “He’s got it bad for you. He has the hots. He’s got a great big h—”

“Sebastian,” Mark says loudly, cutting Jim off before he can say anything else ridiculous, “is not attracted to me. And even if he was, he is _not_ my boyfriend. You are.”

“He is my boyfriend, though,” Jim says smoothly. 

“Oh.” 

“Don’t sound surprised, darling, I’m sure you knew.”

“No, I did, I just—didn’t think it all the way through.” He pauses. “So. What does this mean, then?”

“Oh, it’s all taken care of,” Jim says soothingly. “I’m your boyfriend, Sebastian’s my boyfriend, you and Sebastian share a devastating and somewhat less than clandestine attraction but dating is coming along quite nicely, I think, so that should resolve quite soon—” 

“I’m not attracted to Sebastian,” Mark says, and desperately adds, “He’s not even handsome.”

“Wrong on both counts, I’m afraid.” Jim sounds sympathetic, almost human, and Mark wants to shake him. Well. Do something to him, anyway. “Why don’t you come over and we’ll all sort this out?”

There’s a yelp in the background, the kind someone might make on unexpectedly walking into a conversation during which their boyfriend is propositioning his other boyfriend with what Mark is _relatively sure_ is a threesome. He takes the phone away from his ear just as Jim says, “Oh, hush, Sebby, you know I wouldn’t—”

Mark waits through the buzz of shouting, obscurely pleased that Sebastian seems to be equally appalled; and then Jim gets back on the line. “You’ll make it official on Friday, I think,” he says, quite normally. “Wear something nice.” 

 

***

 

“Would you like some tea?” Mark says, and is pleased to note that his voice definitely sounds exactly as casual as it did when he practiced it. 

“Sure,” Sebastian says. Mark is rather smug to note that Sebastian, unlike Mark, does not sound at all casual, and sounds almost as strained as Mark did the first few times he’d rehearsed the question. He sits down at the kitchen table with absolutely none of his usual grace (not that Mark has noticed Sebastian being particularly—oh, the hell with it, he thinks slightly wildly; Sebastian moves like a panther and he has been _watching_ ) and looks at his hands as Mark picks up the kettle. 

They do not quite manage to make small talk while the water boils—dinner had gone smoothly enough, at least; Mark told Sebastian some of the more interesting things he came across at work (which is definitely not first-date conversation, but technically speaking this is their fourth, and besides Mark does not think it will be an issue with Sebastian; and of course it isn’t) and Sebastian told Mark about the latest game his pick-up team had played. And lost, absolutely spectacularly. Mark can’t keep track of any of the player’s names Sebastian drops, but luckily every one of them sounds bloody awful, so it hardly makes much of a difference.

He is pouring the second cup when Sebastian takes half a step into his space, deferential but deliberate, and Mark catches his breath. When he puts the pot down the only reason his hands don’t shake is the weight of it. For a moment Mark just waits, expectant, and then he makes a little exasperated noise and reaches up to pull Sebastian’s face down. 

It’s that easy. It’s _that_ easy, his mouth on Seb’s and their chests fetching up against each other, his fingers just brushing soft blond hair, air trembling in his lungs. He doesn’t have any mental space left to think about how Jim was right, or to wonder at himself, at his own decisive movements—

—and then Sebastian pulls back and says, soft, _“Fuck.”_

Mark barely has time to be offended before the taller man puts up one hand to his ear and comes away with what looks like a hearing aid, or something from a spy movie. He tosses it onto the kitchen table and bends his head to Mark again, but Mark takes a step back.

“Is that a hearing aid?” He’s asking mostly hypothetically, because of course it’s the only reasonable explanation; he just hadn’t realized Sebastian was hard of hearing. 

“No,” Sebastian says, reluctantly, and he is definitely looking a bit shifty now. 

Mark waits, but Sebastian doesn’t elaborate, just presses his mouth to the curve of Mark’s neck—which, okay, is _very nice,_ his stubble just a little rough and his lips very soft and Mark can feel the slightest edge of his teeth, and Mark makes an appreciative noise and clutches at Sebastian’s warm shoulders, and Sebastian makes a pleased sound, almost a laugh, low in his throat, and— “Sebastian,” Mark says warningly; a bit breathier than he’d like, but still. 

Sebastian pulls back, reluctant, eyes flicking to Mark’s neck before his face. “We can’t talk about this later?” he says, a bit plaintively. 

“No!” Mark snaps. “I swear to god, you two and your secrets. Tell me what’s going on. _Again_.”

“‘S a earpiece,” Sebastian mutters.

“Yes, thank you, I can see that. Why on earth are you wearing an—oh.” Several things suddenly fall together in Mark’s head. The odd listening look Sebastian wore sometimes; the indecision followed by abrupt action; the occasional shift in the pattern of his speech. “He’s been telling you what to say,” Mark says, flatly.

“Only sometimes.” Sebastian draws his fingers along the edge of the table; he touches things, Mark has noticed, when he’s not sure of a situation, as if to locate himself, and were things going slightly differently he is _sure_ Sebastian would be touching him like that instead. “When I’m going to say the wrong thing.” A pause where Mark can’t quite bring himself to get angry. “Or do the wrong thing. I’m… not good at this, Mark.”

He has to bite his tongue on a reassurance, and glares instead. “Have you had it in the whole time? Every time we’ve gone together?”

“Yes, and I’m going to catch hell at home for taking it out, so if we could _please_ get back to it,” Sebastian says, an edge that is not quite pleading to his voice.

“So he’s been listening the entire time,” Mark says flatly, ignoring him. “Including right now,” he raises his voice, “The complete and utter cock.” 

“No—I, uh, turned it off the mic when we got here,” Sebastian says, leaning his weight on the top of a chair until it creaks under his hand. “That’s just a switch. But the earpiece doesn’t turn off.”

Mark cannot quite make up his mind whether he is angry or not. In the normal course of things, he’d be very upset, invasion of privacy and so on; but, well. This is Sebastian. He’d already been operating under the assumption that Jim was getting an accurate summation of every interaction he had with Sebastian after each date; this is just finding out that things are a bit more immediate.

Admittedly, though, he may be allowing his hormones to rule his judgement. Just because he has more self-control than Sebastian doesn’t mean he wouldn’t also rather urgently prefer to be getting on with it. Mark frowns. Sebastian is waiting quietly, wearing that same calm passivity he’s seen him put on while Jim is speaking; but behind the strong-and-silent veneer is a tightness around his eyes and in his hands. 

“Would you be here if he hadn’t told you to come?”

“No.” Mark sucks in a breath as Sebastian hesitates, and adds, “But I still would have wanted to be.” 

He thinks about that for a little while; about what it means that someone so focused on Jim would have his own ideas about Mark, and about being with Mark. 

“Would you have asked?” he says, finally. “To be here. If Jim didn’t tell you to, and didn’t—tell you not to be.”

Sebastian shrugs. “Maybe. It depends on a lot of things.”

“Look,” Mark says. “I know I’m not—like Jim, to you.” Sebastian opens his mouth, and Mark hastily adds, “I don’t want to be. But what am I, then?”

Sebastian runs his hand along one of the burners on the stove, tracing it. Mark spares a moment to hope it is not the one they had boiled the water on.

“I don’t know,” Sebastian says, dogged. “I suppose you’d have to ask Jim.”

“No,” Mark says impatiently, “I mean, separate from Jim. Without him.”

Sebastian frowns at him. “There’s isn’t a ‘without Jim.’”

“I don’t mean _actually_ without him, just—”

Sebastian shakes his head. “There isn’t—I’m nothing without Jim, and don’t _frown_ at me, Mark, it’s not like that. I could walk away if I wanted, I suppose.” He makes a motion like he wants to touch Mark’s hand or wrist, then traces the edge of the table again instead. “But I wouldn’t. Or couldn’t, maybe. But any road I wouldn’t be standing here.”

Mark shifts his weight a little, puts his chin up, and says, “I meant, am I going to be your boyfriend? Or just—”

_“Oh,_ ” Sebastian says, and he sounds guilty, his eyes going to the earpiece and away. “Yes. I mean. That was the plan.” 

Of _course_ there was a plan. Of course no one had told Mark. “And do I get to know the rest of this plan, or am I just along for the ride?”

“You’ll have to ask Jim,” Sebastian says, firmly. 

Mark sighs. “Fine.”

There’s a pause. Sebastian says, cautiously, “So… we’re good, then? We can go back to,” and he gestures between them.

It’s not over, not really; Mark has a number of questions about where the line between Sebastian and Jim lies, and if he’s expected to be like Sebastian is to Jim, and—other very important questions, doubtlessly. But.

“For now,” Mark says, and curls his fingers into the front of Sebastian’s shirt. “Come here.”

Sebastian steps in almost too fast, his hands sliding over Mark’s hips and stopping with his thumbs just barely hooked into Mark’s waistband, hot against his skin. Even then he doesn’t drop his mouth to Mark’s until Mark lifts his face; but when he does he kisses hard, eyes almost shut. Mark pushes back against him—Sebastian may be larger but _he_ is in charge of this kiss, thank you, it’s in _his_ house—and Sebastian makes a broken sound under his breath and opens his mouth under Mark’s. He is warm, warmer than Jim, and slick and _good_ and Mark is definitely in control of this situation. He lets got of Sebastian’s shirt to wrap the hand around the back of his neck instead, and holds him in place to nip at his lip, keep their mouths pressed together while he shoves Sebastian backwards until he runs up against a counter.

Sebastian is practically whining, slouching a little to match their heights; it’s not like Jim, who pushes and insinuates and nudges until he’s entirely in Mark’s lap or down Mark’s pants—not that he minds but he likes this, the way Seb goes a little softer with each kiss. He hesitates, not pulling away just—just _pausing_ —and then slips his free hand behind Sebastian’s shirt, fingers splayed against warm skin. Sebastian curves his back to press against Mark’s hand and then arches to press his body against Mark’s and makes a distraught sound. Mark laughs, softly, and pushes forward against Sebastian so that he is pinned against the counter, hand firm on the small of Sebastian’s back. Sebastian echoes his movement, places his hands lightly on Mark’s shoulder blades, pulling him in closer. Mark can feel the tension in them, feel the twitch when he flicks his tongue over Sebastian’s lips.

There’s a tiny, tinny sound from the the earpiece on the table, and Sebastian says, breathless, “Bastard has an airhorn for when he thinks I’m not paying enough attention. Ah. Couch, maybe?”

“Couch,” Mark agrees. “Yes. Please.”

“Right.” There’s a gleam in Seb’s eye that Mark thinks he should be wary of but instead just makes his stomach flip; and then Sebastian picks him up bodily and takes the ten steps to the front room easily, like Mark weighs nothing at all; but he puts Mark down on his feet instead of on the couch, and waits. 

Mark stares at him blankly for a moment; Sebastian is poised, eager, eyes on Mark’s face. He catches on, laughs, and places his palm flat on Sebastian’s chest, shoves him backward onto the couch. Sebastian goes willingly, sprawled and still breathless, his shirt riding up to show skin a few shades paler than his arms. Mark did not think this through; it’s a small couch and Sebastian is a large man and there are actually very few options for Mark to join him on the couch now. Only one option, really.

Mark feels awkward lowering himself over Sebastian, but he doesn’t seem to notice, eyes and then hands on Mark’s hips, pulling him closer. Mark follows the tug of Sebastian’s hands, settled kneeling over Sebastian’s hips, and for a dizzy moment he has to resist the urge to grind down onto Sebastian, who is hard even through his jeans. He leans forward, instead, traces a hand over Sebastian’s relaxed face, and lets his chest settle against Sebastian’s, his mouth against the warm scratch of Sebastian’s neck.

Somehow Seb is bigger, lying down; and Mark feels small against him. Small in a good way, small the way cats are small and yet still the masters of their space, and he closes his teeth very gently on the skin beneath them. The sound he gets in return is less of a gasp, more of a hum, and he bites harder, encouraged—and this time it’s a groan that ends on a low laugh. 

“Good man,” Sebastian murmurs, apparently without thinking about it; Mark flushes, pleased on more levels than he likes to admit. 

Sebastian’s skin tastes neutral under him, less sharp than Jim’s and with a clean edge that might be sweat; it tastes warm, like everything about Sebastian feels and looks and even, apparently, tastes. He runs his teeth along the line of Sebastian’s neck, revels in the noise it prompts in response—Jim, true, is equally if not more responsive, but it’s always a touch too self-satisfied, not quite genuine, as though he could burst out laughing as soon as moan. Sebastian makes the sounds as though he doesn’t realize he’s doing it; at least, so far. Mark knows he shouldn’t be comparing, especially when he has such unequal sets of data—clearly the only solution is to gather more comprehensive data on Sebastian, and Mark stifles a noise of his own at the thought of what that entails. 

Exactly what _has_ Jim told Sebastian about him, anyway?

He puts it aside. Sebastian’s hands are running down Mark’s hips to his thighs and back again, and they can address whatever minor physical questions there might be as they come up. So to speak. 

The collar of Seb’s shirt is just loose enough for Mark to nip at his collarbone, and then at the muscle of his shoulder; Sebastian’s hips tilt up and then back in a way it doesn’t take much imagination to read as pleading. So the next time they shift Mark shifts with them, his mouth pressing down onto Sebastian’s and his pelvis grinding down. Sebastian makes a scraping sort of moan and arches his back, pushes up harder against Mark, fingers tightening on Mark’s hips in a motion that is only just barely not a scrabble. Mark arches his own back, drags his hips against Sebastian and really, _really_ hopes that Jim has already had a word with Sebastian and that they are not about to have to stop _again_ to have a Talk.

 “Christ,” Sebastian bites out, so apparently that isn’t an issue, but when Mark does it again Sebastian stiffens and jerks in an entirely different way.

“What,” Mark says, alarmed, sitting up at once, “Sorry, what did I—I thought you knew, I thought—”

Sebastian makes an irritable gesture. “Caught my fucking fly. Sorry.”

“Oh.” Mark flushes and glances down. “Do you need to, ah—”

Sebastian lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t need anything,” he says, almost carefully, and then, after a pause, “ _Want_ , yeah, Jesus. Alright if I—?”

“Yes,” Mark breathes; he feels almost drunk, and falls more than sits back. Sebastian unzips and lifts his hips, sliding his trousers down over them with a motion so smooth it looks practiced; and Mark can’t help it. He doesn’t even let Sebastian push them all the way off, just grabs the front of his shirt as he sits up and pull him in to kiss, and then they’re both sprawled back against the couch again. This time Mark is almost fully between Sebastian’s legs, and he can feel Sebastian’s cock nearly against his, hard and moving evenly in time with his rolling hips. 

“Better?” Mark says, the word harder to form than it should be, and Sebastian hisses an affirmative into his mouth in a way that almost sounds like Jim. Mark shudders, and Sebastian jerks against him, hips going erratic for a few moments before steadying.

“Can I?” Mark plucks at the end of Sebastian’s shirt and Sebastian mumbles “please” so Mark slides a hand under it, along the not-quite-smooth curve of Sebastian’s side, fingers stumbling over the slick texture of scars that he has not seen and will be very interested in—but not right now. Right now he is, urgently, much more interested in Sebastian’s skin as a whole, in having Sebastian naked and writhing and making those noises under him. Well. Maybe not naked but certainly _less clothed,_ and Mark shoves the hem of the shirt up, revealing a long stretch of belly and ribs. He doesn’t want to move, not with Sebastian’s cock sliding so easily against him, but he can’t reach Seb’s mouth from here so Mark does the next best thing and licks a long path, sternum to collar. 

Sebastian’s head falls back against the arm of the couch and his hips jerk up, trembling at the apex; Mark can feel every inch of him tighten and then, just as suddenly, release. He wants to laugh, and then he does laugh, and slides his hand down, over warm wetness and onto Sebastian’s cock. 

“Ah,” Mark says, not entirely sure what to say, “Congratulations?”

Sebastian stares at him and then throws an arm up over his face and laughs. “Congratulations,” he repeats after Mark. “That’s a new one.” Mark stiffens, hand pressing against Sebastian’s softening cock, and Sebastian gasps, fists clenching.

“Hm,” says Mark, and strokes gently upwards. Sebastian squeezes his eyes shut, neck tensing, and Mark asks hastily, “Too much?”

“No,” Sebastian says, voice scraping, “I’ll tell you if—Christ.” Mark keeps his fingers light, twists them gently around Sebastian’s cock without putting too much pressure on the head, and after a few minutes Sebastian shudders slightly and says, “There—okay. Enough.” 

He stills his hand, and after a moment takes it away in order to tuck both against Sebastian’s side, chin propped on his chest. The angle is awkward but nice, and it shows Sebastian’s somewhat crooked smile to its best advantage, and Mark is very aware of his own body pulsing but he _has_ to ask. He can’t quite help it. Despite everything he is still himself.

“It was all right?”

Seb squints at him, and then ruffles Mark’s hair in a way that could be condescending but isn’t. “Couldn’t be anything but alright—more than alright—not with you on top of me like that.” He breathes out, not quite a whistle, and trails his fingers along Mark’s jawline. Mark leans his head into it, eyes fluttering shut, and Sebastian makes a pleased noise. “Pretty,” he remarks, and Mark’s eyes open at once, his body tensing. “Like Jim,” and Mark cannot quite tell if he is finishing the sentence or adding on to it. 

“Not as pretty as me,” Sebastian says, and this is definitely an addition. Mark makes an outraged noise and Sebastian laughs, full through his chest, and pats Mark’s cheek. “Don’t feel bad,” he advises. “Not even Jim’s as pretty as I am.”

“You,” Mark says, “are terribly self-satisfied after you get off, did you know.”

Sebastian stretches. “Got an awful lot to be satisfied about, to be fair.” He finishes his stretch and eyes Mark. “Are you?”

Mark flushes, and spares a thought to be surprised that there is still enough blood left in his body to do so. “Am I what?”

“Satisfied after you get off.” Sebastian’s hand traces from his face down to his neck, toys with the collar of his shirt. 

“No hands lower than my collarbones,” Mark orders without thinking, and Sebastian nods, casual, as though he’s used to taking them—which, to be fair, he probably is. 

“Well?”

Mark allows a smile to curl his mouth into what he knows is a completely ridiculous looking smile. “I suppose you’ll have to find out.”

Sebastian grins back. “Suppose I will.” His fingers stroke Mark’s collarbones all the way out to his shoulders and back in, and the hollow of his throat. “Feel free to decline, but I’ll suck you off if you’re willing.”

Mark’s mouth is suddenly very dry and he has to swallow twice before he can manage to say, “Oh. I. Yes. If you don’t mind.”

“Sit up, then.” Sebastian is grinning, and Mark’s limbs take a long minute to get themselves into enough order to allow him to scramble free, set his back into the corner of the couch. Once he does Sebastian sits up and slides bonelessly down to kneel in front of him—at least, Mark assumes that is what Sebastian was trying to do, but what _happens_ is that Sebastian forgets his trousers are still around his ankles, and falls over onto the floor. 

Mark just barely gets his hands to his mouth in time to stifle his laugh. “Oh dear.” Sebastian has apparently chosen to ignore what is happening; he’s lying on his back, still uncomfortable twisted, staring matter-of-factly at the ceiling. “Do you need a hand?”

“I swear,” Sebastian says, “this has never happened to me before.”

“You probably say that to all the—all the boys.”

“All the dozens of them,” Sebastian agrees, making an efficient but inelegant scrambling motion to get out of his trousers and then sitting up and stripping off his shirt in a motion more than smooth enough to make up for any awkwardness. 

“At least you’re pretty,” Mark offers, and reaches forward to run his hands over Sebastian’s shoulders.

“I’m good with my mouth, too,” Sebastian says, “with any luck, good enough to make you forget you just saw that.”

Mark is going to retort, he is, but he is distracted by the look Sebastian suddenly has—intent, almost frighteningly; enough to send a pleasant shiver through his spine but not enough to make him properly uncomfortable.

“Lean back,” Sebastian says, soft, and Mark does, runs his hand through Sebastian’s hair while Sebastian settles forward, hands stroking his thighs. “Trousers?” Sebastian asks, and Mark fumbles at his fastening until Sebastian brushes his hands away, pulls them down and off, leaving Mark in just his pants. There is a slightly longer hesitation before Sebastian says, “Pants?” in a voice half an octave lower, and just the slightest bit rough. Mark can’t do anything more than nod, and Sebastian’s laugh as he works them off is breathless. 

Mark expects—he doesn’t know what he expects. Some sort of pause, maybe, some little awkwardness while Sebastian reorients or reconsiders, but instead Seb drops his mouth to Mark’s cock and breathes in, catching his scent, which is, oh dear, extremely hot. He has no real idea about Sebastian’s sexuality, how he identifies or what he likes except Jim, but either he’s a fast learner or he’s encountered Mark’s...arrangement before, because there’s no hesitation. Just his mouth closing over Mark’s cock, his tongue against the sensitive underside, just the tip of it, moving just enough to be teasing and not so much that it overwhelms. 

Wouldn’t overwhelm, anyway, in the normal course of things. But Mark has had an awfully long evening and frankly a long week and Sebastian, somewhat unsurprisingly, looks even better shirtless and on his knees. And Sebastian leans into him, works into a rhythm with his tongue and his lips and if it weren’t for earlier events it would be a bit embarrassing how quickly Mark is gasping, hands in Sebastian’s hair, trying to fight against his urge to shove Sebastian’s mouth down onto himself, on the edge of coming but not quite there. 

Sebastian raises his head and Mark bites back a whine, tries to pull himself together enough to meet Sebastian’s gaze and tell him it’s fine, he can stop, but Sebastian just says, a little hoarse, “You can—push down. Or pull my hair. If you like.” 

Mark tries to form a response but it just doesn’t seem important enough to, so he grabs a handful of Sebastian’s hair—which is surprisingly long—and jerks him in closer, so that Seb’s breath comes hot and muffled directly against his cock. The sudden secure knowledge that Jim has almost certainly done worse is almost soothing; and Mark throws a knee over Sebastian’s shoulder to hold him in place. Seb’s hands tighten on Mark’s hips, and then stroke, encouraging, down to his arse and back up. 

Usually it takes Mark a while to come on his own; he’s faster with Jim, of course, he’s always faster with a partner and anyway Jim is _very_ good at what he does, but Mark needs a bit of a run-up. 

Or, it turns out, what Mark needs is for his boyfriend to set him up with his extremely talented live-in, because Mark is panting hard and holding Sebastian’s head in place with both hands now, and somehow managing to say, “Please, Seb, don’t _stop_ ,” even as he can feel his cock twitch. 

Sebastian doesn’t, of course, and he doesn’t stop even as Mark jerks up against his mouth and comes in a few frantic crashing waves, doesn’t stop as Mark sprawls back, panting, until Mark weakly scrabbles at his shoulders, says “God, Seb, enough, come here—” and pulls weakly. Sebastian laughs and joins him on the couch, wiping his mouth with one hand, casually, and pushing his face into the curve of Mark’s neck as he settles next to him on the couch. He smells like Mark; it hasn’t been so very long since this would have been indescribably upsetting, but now Mark turns his head and presses his mouth against what he can reach of Sebastian’s cheek, lazy and satisfied. Such a large man should not fit so easily onto such a small couch; but then, they’re both a little boneless just now, soft against each other’s skin. 

There is a sudden shrill buzz from the bell, and then someone pounding on the door; Mark jumps a little, but then Jim sing-songs, “Open _up,_ Mark!” and he sighs.

“Right on time,” says Seb. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Seb and Mark bang, and they both enjoy it. And then Jim shows up almost comically on time.
> 
>  
> 
> The "crawled onto the counter and died" section is a Maya quote from, I believe, drop dead gorgeous.


End file.
